Bitterness of one who's left alone
by sureaintmebabe
Summary: Sherlock has to face the fact that John is not the same person anymore. And who could argue with facts? Alterning POV; Post-Reichenbach; Reunion; Memorabilia; eventual JohnLock.
1. Chapter 1

**This is actually the first fanfic I publish.**

**I have to thank my brand new beta reader and britpicker, Ruth, who is being the sweetest helping with my writing and betad this chapter! **

**I'd love any opinions and suggestions!**

_"Disarm you with a smile  
And leave you like they left me here  
To wither in denial  
The bitterness of one who's left alone" :: Smashing Pumpkins - Disarm_

**_OOooOOooOO_**

_**(Sherlock)**_

If anyone could truly understand how John Watson had changed Sherlock Holmes, it would be probably Mycroft. Maybe that was why the detective was always so nervous talking to his brother about it. The two Holmes were alike in many ways, and it was unsettling to be read like he did with everybody.

Sherlock wasn't used to being under the lens, he was always the one making the observations, but he didn't miss the meaning John had in his life, as some people seemed to think. People were always assuming he took his friend for granted, but Sherlock knew better, he really knew. The thing is that the fact that he knew didn't mean he knew how to act upon it. And he knew that as well. He always hoped John could understand that.

Human emotions, feelings, relationships, friendships were not his area of expertise, they had never been. The best Sherlock thought he could do was to leave them to the normal people to make John happy. Even those dull women of his – honestly, Sherlock couldn't understand how John always seemed to pick the dullest of them all. Maybe it was his jealousy talking, he supposed, but he would leave that alone as well, it wasn't his area either.

The one thing Sherlock valued the most about John was that, for the first time in his life, he didn't have to pretend. And that was something else. And that's why he never tried to change, to dip into emotions, because he was allowed to be himself around his friend, and John was willing to accept him for what he was and not for what he could, or should be. Sherlock always thought that feelings were a kind of cage, that they trapped people and made them prisoners, but his affection towards John had showed him that they could also mean freedom, permission to be his own self, to not have to act.

Leaving the doctor behind had been the most difficult thing Sherlock had ever done. And at the same time, it had been the one thing that proved John's influence on him. Mycroft didn't have to say anything, his face had said enough. The sacrifice of leaving John, their lives of puzzles, the London streets, and his work behind had been the ultimate proof of how his affection towards his friend had changed him.

Hunting Moriarty's men hadn't been work, it had been a matter of survival and protection. It had always been about John's safety, his happiness, his life. Sherlock was willing to spend the rest of his life hiding, bruised and broken, if that would keep John safe.

When he allowed himself to think about his return, he would scan through the many possibilities. It was not unexpected that John might be blindly angry. Sherlock knew the doctor had mourned him. He was probably the only one who truly did, the only who would ever miss Sherlock, for that matter. John had always been the only one to consider, actually. And of course, Sherlock was also trying to protect Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but, in the end, everything was to keep John alive.

So, in the worst case scenario, Sherlock anticipated that John could be very angry, he could even be unwilling to listen to anything, slam the door on the detective's face, or slam his fists into Sherlock's face until his nose started bleeding. That was definitely one possible scenario. Sherlock was ready for that.

Sherlock was also ready to see tears, because John had always been the one with the big heart. He might cry, he might feel betrayed, and Sherlock told himself that he was ready to say everything he could think of to explain exactly what he had done, and why, to stop those thoughts in John's mind. He would have to make him understand that it had not been about lack of trust, but exactly the opposite. It was because Sherlock never doubted that the doctor would follow him everywhere, anywhere, because that was John, the most loyal and the greatest man Sherlock had ever know. A true hero.

The best scenario of all it would be if John could understand everything quickly. If he could, at least for some minutes, put his unreasonable thoughts aside and think like Sherlock for once, and then maybe he could see that it was the only possibility, and he could even value Sherlock's sacrifice.

But he was John Watson, and the one thing one could say about him was that he was the puzzle Sherlock never really got to figure out completely. So he didn't do any of those things.

It was the indifferences in the differences, you see, that caught Sherlock unguarded. John had to do the one thing the detective hadn't expected.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(John)**_

John had spent those years pretending so hard that he was okay, that, in the end, it was coming naturally to him. He could bloody well be an actor.

When he found himself alone in their flat after the fall – yes, their flat, it would always be theirs – he could feel the wave of pain invading his chest and it would be almost impossible to breathe. In the first months, he would look at himself in the mirror and it would be clear that he hadn't lost only a friend. He had lost everything. The life he had with Sherlock Holmes had jumped from the roof that day, along with the coat, the scarf and the incredible man and his pair of mysterious eyes.

He had hated when people came around, trying to be sympathetic. As far as John knew, the only right thing to do would be to leave him alone and understand that nobody could possibly know how he felt. He had hated all that cheap talk about grief, about loss, about missing a dear friend. Anyone who thought he could describe Sherlock as a dear friend wasn't allowed to say anything in the matter.

John had his work, sure. He was a doctor. He was an ex-soldier, he was a good man. But Sherlock Holmes... Sherlock Holmes had been everything. Sherlock Holmes was everything. And everything was what he had taken with him to his grave. Everything John had in his life had come from that genius when they first met. It was an irresistible force pushing John to him, giving a greater meaning to his training as a soldier and a doctor. Back in the days when they were both together running through London, John would find himself thinking about fate and how he was, in fact, grateful for that bullet hole that had brought him to Sherlock Holmes. He was even grateful for that shitty afternoon when he ran into Mike at the park – that afternoon that seemed so random at the time, but now seemed like it was set to happen.

Because Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson – how could anything be more certain than that?

As the months and years passed, John allowed himself to get rid of Sherlock's things. Some of the things, anyway. Some other things he could never bring himself to give away or destroy, and he had never told anyone. Mycroft had not asked, and John would never tell. John let his therapist think that he had given it all away, and that it was a sign of his progression, but for him it was really the opposite. One day he knew that his pain would never go away, no matter how hard he tried. Time wasn't a factor on that matter. Time was nothing compared to the force of nature that was Sherlock Holmes.

So Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Greg and his therapist had all thought John was moving on by rearranging the flat, and they couldn't have been more wrong. John felt that he was, in fact, surrendering, accepting that nobody would never understand how broken he was, and that he would never be whole again. The violin and the microscope could tell them that. They could listen to his nightmares night after night, they could listen him talking to himself and to Sherlock in his head.

The best thing that happened in those years was to feel himself getting numb. He didn't need to drink, he wasn't Harry. He didn't need cocaine, or morphine, he wasn't like Sherlock. All he had to do to feel completely numb and oblivious was to leave the flat. At the moment he stepped outside, he could feel how out of place he was, how the world seemed strange and boring – oh, so boring – so empty. But he played along very well. He would fulfill his working hours, he would meet Greg for some pints, he would drink tea and eat scones with Mrs. Hudson. Fuck it, he would even date! He was ready to win an Oscar. He would smile, kiss, even have sex and never let out a single damn word about the life he had with Sherlock Holmes with anyone. The only person who had managed to make him talk about it was Mrs. Hudson, and he had ended her attempts with a simple: "I don't think I'll ever be able to talk about him. Sorry". He felt she deserved that. She had never asked again, but John could tell she had understood. She was the only one that could tell John suffered the same way every day. John was glad she didn't know his therapist because she would make things difficult in his plan of fooling everybody.

The stupid therapist had tried to convince him that it would be a good idea to look for a place of his own. Of course that stupid woman would think about it. What an idiot! John would never leave Baker Street. If he left it, he could blood well die, because then that would be really no place where he could be himself. It was the most stupid thing he had ever listened. After that, he never came back to therapy. He was afraid he would lose control and let out all the pain he was still feeling. He would never leave Baker Street and that was that. _England would fall _– he could hear in the back of his mind. In his head, himself, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes and Baker Street were a single organism. It was in bad shape since Sherlock had died, but it was the only home he had known since he had came back from the war, and he wouldn't leave it for a thing in the world. Mycroft was still paying half of the rent, and John never wanted to know why.

Three years after Sherlock's death, he would discover why. Because the selfish bastard was fucking alive all that time, that was why. Of all things, that was the one John was not prepared for.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(Sherlock)**_

The reunion had been difficult to plan. Sherlock didn't know what to do about that. He didn't know how to approach John. How does one approach his best friend after three years hiding in plain sight? Sherlock waited until he was certain there wouldn't be any other threat to John's life. And he waited until he was healthier. Those years had been exhausting and to say that he was in bad shape it would be a light statement. He had some broken ribs, he had been shot – in the shoulder, of all places! - he was thinner and sleep was a luxury that he couldn't always afford.

Sherlock knew that turn up at Baker Street impaired and broken would easy his way to John's heart and life, but he felt he couldn't do that to his friend again. He couldn't manipulate their reunion to make it easier for himself, when he knew John would hurt so much. He was a doctor, he was a healer, yes. But Sherlock knew he didn't deserve that kind of treatment just yet. He wanted to make sure John would understand exactly what had happened, and being vulnerable was not something Sherlock liked.

Sherlock spent almost two weeks thinking about how to talk to John. After all those years, one would think he would have planned everything ahead, but he hadn't. He hadn't because he didn't allow himself to think about John in that objective way or he knew he would go mad. He first did what he was supposed to do – well, maybe not exactly. Maybe to kill Moran hadn't been necessary, but who could judge him for killing the man who would have shot John in the head?

Anyway, in the weeks he retreated to rest in the Holmes Manor, he tried to think of how to approach John. It wasn't an easy task. He couldn't just show up in the surgery and ask John to get him some tea. He couldn't approach John on the street, he didn't know how John would react. The only reasonable thing to do was to go to Baker Street, maybe to break in – not really, he still had his key – and wait for John to arrive from work.

Sherlock thought maybe he could lighten the impact by sending some texts, but he was afraid John would feel played. He couldn't toy with his friend like that, sending mysterious texts along the weeks, he could end up driving John mad. Sherlock regretted not having prepared things earlier. He even regretted not taking John with him, but he only allowed himself to think about that for some minutes. He knew he had done what he had to do. And even if he had spent all those months aching alone, traveling around the world and risking himself, the hardest part would be to return, uncertain of how John would take it.

In the end, he decided he would just slip into their – John's – flat and wait. He sent a single text, when he knew John would be heading home from work. He had to say the most truthful truth of them all, the only thing he could never forget.

**I missed you -SH**

**OoOOooOOoo**

******_(John)_**

John couldn't believe it, after all that time, someone was toying with him like that. After three fucking years some heartless bastard had the guts to send him a text and even to sign it with Sherlock's initials! John was burning with pure rage and grief, he was feeling like he might collapse at work. He went to wash his face, changed his clothes and decided he was getting himself drunk before heading home that night. A single text could make his heart burn like a massive fire, because for a tiny second it felt so true, but also so fake. It was so true that John would like to hear those words from Sherlock, but it was so mean that it was never going to happen. He kept asking himself who would be so evil and send him that. Who would know Sherlock signed his texts, anyway? John sighed and headed for the pub.

He wasn't exactly surprised to see the black car pulling over by his side on the street. After all that time, of course Mycroft bloody Holmes would turn up exactly on the day someone sent him a text pretending to be Sherlock.

"Ah, hello, Doctor Watson, it's been a while," Mycroft said from inside the car. John didn't let himself get too close for fear of being dragged into the Holmes' madness one more time.

"Yes, I would prefer to keep it that way. What do you want?" John's expression was as hard as a stone. He couldn't remember being that angry for a while. It was a Holmesy talent, if you asked him. "I'm going to the pub, so leave me alone, yeah?"

"Oh, I see. I thought you would be running home by now, I can give you a ride," Mycroft said in that manipulative tone of his. But something in it wasn't right in John's ears. He knew Mycroft a little, he seemed... shaken? Emotional? Had he received a text too? Well, John could relate to that.

"So, have you already discovered then? I'm actually feeling sorry for the bastard now that I know you'll catch him. Who would send tha-," John didn't know what to make of Mycroft's face, but he felt compelled to get in the car, and his hands were shaking. He heard Mycroft sigh and there was that expression again. Was he concerned? What the fuck was happening? "Who the hell sent me that text, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed again and nodded to the driver. "I think you should go home, John, trust me."

"Yes, I should trust you, the last person who did ended up pretty fine, didn't it?" John was fuming. Even him was surprised with how angry he was. All that he kept hiden inside for so long was being poked at by a cruel text and the presence of Mycroft. He wasn't prepared for this, he wasn't prepared for remember any of that. "Look, stop the car. I'm going for a walk," he told Mycroft, already trying to open the door. When he realized he couldn't - bloody safety locks -, he turned to the older Holmes with a look of pure fury. "What the fuck is happening, Mycroft? Who sent me that text?"

"John... You have to go home. And he will explain everything. Now, please, calm down," Mycroft sighed again and sent a quick text.

"He...?" John asked, feeling his heart pumping in his ears because he knew. He just knew. He looked at Mycroft for one more time and he just knew.

He didn't know how, but everything he had been through, every tear he had cried, every fucking day of every fucking week of the last three fucking years had been a lie. He didn't know why, he didn't know how, but at that very moment, John decided it didn't matter. It didn't matter because something inside him had died three years ago, and if Sherlock thought he could have it back, he was truly mistaken. Not even John recognized the cold that had taken his heart. For a second he really wished he could melt it down, but it wasn't for him to decide. And after some minutes thinking about it, why should he? Why should he try to forget everything he had been through to go back to being friends with a person who could do that? Why should he be the same old John Watson, warm and giving and healing and sane if Sherlock Holmes could do such a thing to him? No. If you asked John, he would say to you exactly that: No. He wouldn't fight the numbness. He would continue to hide his pain to himself. It wasn't Sherlock's business now, was it? The selfish bastard hadn't even thought about him. He was probably traveling around the world, enjoying himself alone.

The car pulled over and Mycroft could almost read John's mind. Of course he could, he was a Holmes. John found himself paralyzed for some seconds.

"I see you have made up your mind already," Mycroft said pressing the bridge of his nose. "Just at least give him a chance to explain."

"Of course! What am I if not a toy for the Holmes brothers?" John gave Mycroft his best fake smile, built of the deepest bitterness he had in himself. For a moment he could swear he had seen some sorrow in Mycroft's eyes, but he couldn't care less about that, really. John felt he had his own wounds to deal with.

He headed upstairs and sighed heavily before opening the door. He felt like he was about to remember the worst and the best things that ever happened to him. He flinched for a minute and stepped back. He straightened his shoulders, he cracked his neck, and his hands were steady. He prepared himself to fight. Not with his fists, but with his own heart. He wasn't going to let that bastard take anything more from him. What was left for him to take? John ran a hand through his hair and opened the door.

**OoOOooOOoo**

******_(Sherlock)_**

Sherlock was driving himself insane waiting for John to come home. He didn't receive a reply for his text, but he could hardly blame John. Who would reply to a dead friend? He had much more time for wander in the flat than what he had expected, and it wasn't at all a good thing. Everything looked so different that everywhere he looked was a reminder that John had moved on. That Baker Street wasn't his home anymore, and that he didn't even have one. That realization was doing things to his own body that he didn't expect and, frankly, wasn't prepared for.

He tried to be reasonable, of course. He knew it was normal for John to move on, and to change. Maybe he was a different person now, maybe he had changed the flat because he wanted to forget Sherlock and the life they had. It was normal, Sherlock supposed he deserved that. In the end, it didn't matter if he had sacrificed so much, he would always be the wrong one, the one who left everything behind. Mycroft had talked to him about that.

Sherlock looked for his violin in the living room, but it wasn't there. Mycroft had told him that John had kept it, but it seemed unlikely. Sherlock felt a pang in his heart. Had John kept it? Had he destroyed it? Sherlock looked down at his own hands. He didn't even know if he could play anymore. One of his targets had broken his hand at some point, and he couldn't get the proper treatment at the time. It pained him some times, when it was cold, but Mycroft had sent him to a trauma specialist when he came back and they said he should try. Well, he would like that very much. He would like even more if he could have his violin back.

After some time, Sherlock watched the black car pull over. Mycroft had interfered without being asked, no news here. Maybe it was better that way. Sherlock hated to admit, but his brother was better in human emotions than him. He felt them, but they were messy and confusing, he didn't know what to do. And those minutes between the car pulling over and John opening the door had been the worst emotional storm he had ever felt. His heart was hammering, he forced his hand to stop shaking and he breathed deeply.

When John opened the door, Sherlock froze. How could he freeze if he was expecting him? That was odd. He wasn't functioning properly, he didn't understand. He shook his head, and tried to regain his senses, because he knew he would need them.

"John," Sherlock managed to say. It wasn't anything, really. Was it a greeting? It seemed more like a reassurance for his own sake, to say that name out loud, to convince himself that John was there. He was behaving oddly, it was obvious John was there, he was looking at him. "You must have questions."

The talk was one-sided. Sherlock followed John to the kitchen because he knew his friend's ritual. It wouldn't be a talk without tea. Sherlock watched John set two mugs and watched his friend's back while he waited for the kettle to boil. All the situation was maddening. John wasn't even looking at him. He was in his soldier form and his body language was anything but friendly.

Sherlock could understand anger. He had prepared himself for that. Sherlock could understand being hit by John, having his nose broken. He could understand pain, sorrow, grief, betrayal. He was prepared for seeing all those things in John's eyes, but he wasn't really prepared for not seeing John's eyes at all, he wasn't prepared to face only John's cold back.

He thought it would be easier when the tea was ready and they headed for the living room. But John set himself at the window, and Sherlock didn't know how to get closer without crossing the line John was setting between them.

"Can you at least look at me?" Sherlock asked after sipping his tea and watching John's back for more than what he wanted.

John sighed. "Not really, no."

**OoOOooOOoo**

******_(John)_**

John couldn't, really. He felt he couldn't. After all that time, one would think he would be prepared to see Sherlock without having that eagerness to crush the bastard's lips with his own. But no, he wasn't.

Sherlock seemed older, tired, hurt, he seemed small, seemed alone, and scared. John could see everything in just a glance. It was funny how Sherlock was the one with the deduction skills, but John was the one who was always observing the detective. How could he love a person like that? John thought he must be mad. After everything, the first thing he felt seeing Sherlock was love, a heat of happiness and relief and a sign of familiarity that he wasn't allowing himself to feel for much more time.

John crushed his own hopes, he swallowed his own stupid emotions and went to make tea not because he wanted to drink it, but because he couldn't look into Sherlock's eyes without preparing himself to lie. Because he'd be damned if he would let that bastard see everything so clearly in John's eyes in the way it would be probably showing in that moment. John loved him, had loved him all the time, and he didn't even know what that meant, but he did. He did, but he couldn't! How could he love a person like that? How could he let this person come back to his life? How could he, John Watson, doctor, ex-captain, good man, let one single person destroy everything a fucking bullet of the Taliban fucking militia had not managed to? No, he couldn't. He wouldn't do it. He would crush this useless love like a bug.

And he wouldn't look into those storm coloured eyes until he was sure he could hide everything, as he had for the past three years. Sherlock was very much mistaken if he thought he would come into his house and deduce a bunch of emotions in John's eyes. No, he wouldn't get away with that anymore. He didn't deserve it.

John stayed in silence for sometime. But he was truly curious.

"How?" he asked, without turning from the window.

"Homeless network. They were there, they didn't let you come very near. Molly helped with the body. Mycroft helped me hide. But, John, I had to do this, Moriarty-"

"No, no, no," John said, in his command tone. He wouldn't turn from the window, wouldn't look at Sherlock. "I ask the questions". John's mind was rushing. Of course all the fucking London knew and John didn't. Who was him, really? Nobody important. Why would he be informed? Silly of him to ask that, really.

He was surprised Sherlock had really shut that big mouth of his and was waiting for John to ask his own questions. Now he was concerned? Oh, John thought that was just sweet. He thought he should be touched by all this fucking kindness. His right hand was clinched into a tight fist.

"John," Sherlock tried, only to be cut by John again.

"Shut up." John wasn't shouting, he didn't seem nervous, he seemed distant. Even he himself was scared with his reaction. John had never been a cold blooded person.

Nobody would believe this John Watson who wouldn't let his emotions show, who was calculating his own reactions, who was trying to get rid of sentiment himself. Well, but those people hadn't lived with Sherlock Holmes. Those people hadn't been broken by Sherlock Holmes. One would be amazed by the parts that die when a person loses the most important thing of his life only to discover that it was all a lie. It had all been a great lie. Not only the death, but the life as well. John had never doubted Sherlock Holmes, but now he couldn't trust that man anymore. He was a genius, yes. He wasn't a fake genius. He was a fake friend, an awful person, a fucking machine. John should have known.

Yes. Now, John could look into Sherlock's eyes as much as he wanted. There was nothing more there for him to take.

"Okay," John set in his armchair and signed to Sherlock sit on the sofa. "Tell me everything".

**OoOOooOOoo**

******_(Sherlock)_**

Sherlock flinched seeing his friend's eyes after so long. The same deep blue eyes, but so different, so distant. Is that who John was now? Or that was only his reaction to Sherlock's presence? This wasn't John Watson. John wasn't like this, he was never like this. He almost sounded like Sherlock. That realization disturbed the detective much more than he was prepared for.

"There were snipers for each one of you. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you. They would have killed each one of you if I hadn't jumped. And the order was still out there if I hadn't died. I had to die! And I had to stay that dead until I had tracked down the three snipers and the other names of Moriarty's network," Sherlock sighed. John didn't even seem to be listening. Sherlock was growing impatient and confused. "Are you listening?"

John looked up from his own hands and nodded. "Go on."

"It took longer than I expected. Much longer. I'm sorry for everything I've put you through." Sherlock had so many things to say, but John didn't seem like he was willing to listen. In fact, Sherlock couldn't remember any other time in his adult life that he had felt so defeated. John almost didn't look into his eyes, and when he looked he was so distant, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to believe what his deductions were telling him.

Did John still care? Did John wanted to listen to anything? Did John want to be left alone?

Sherlock hated to admit that his own emotions were getting in his way. He couldn't accept what his deductions were telling him, this cold person in front of him wasn't John. John was joyful and full of life. John had always been warm, forgiving. John wasn't hard like that.

"It wasn't because I didn't trust you, John," Sherlock continued. He had thought about it a great deal of time, and he had to say that. He wouldn't let John think he wasn't needed. "I just couldn't risk losing any of you. I know you would help me, but you helped me convincing everybody that I was really dead. I'm sorry".

Sherlock's voice was trembling and if John noticed, he didn't say anything. Sherlock stood up and started pacing through the living room. He wanted to shake John's shoulders, to yank him from that oblivion. "Aren't you going to say anything? You are disappointed, I know, I'm sorry! But you have to talk to me about this!"

John snorted. "No, I really don't. I don't have to do anything."

Sherlock was exasperated. "But if you don't... If you don't..."

"Yes, please, tell me, if I don't what? You will leave? That ship sailed. I don't intent to talk about this, so leave it alone." John was impassive, his features were hard and his gaze cold on Sherlock.

The detective pretended he had not heard the cruel words. Was John angry? Angry was good. "If you don't show something, I won't know what to do. You know this is not my area!"

John laughed. John, the puzzle Sherlock could never bring himself to solve, was being what he had always been: unpredictable.

Sherlock felt scared. Something in John's behavior made him feel afraid and alone. And he couldn't help but feel guilty for what he had done to his friend. He knew it was his fault. And he could only hope John could see his motives. But Sherlock didn't even know if John had listened to him.

"Tell me what to do. What can I do?" Sherlock asked, desperately.

"For the first time, nothing. You can't trick me, you can't convince me, you can't do anything." John stood up and took the mugs to the kitchen. He came back to the living room. "It doesn't matter, anyway".

This talk was like a nightmare that Sherlock couldn't wake up from. "Of course it matters! It's the one thing that does matter!" Sherlock shouted. His eyes widened from the sound of his own voice and his own words. He was surprised at his own outburst. These things, these emotions, this confusion were exactly why he had always chosen to disregard his feelings. He waited for John to answer, to say anything, but John seemed lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock could understand that, maybe he should give John some space, try again a day after.

"I am sorry, John. I did what I had to do, but I am sorry," Sherlock took a deep breath. "I should go." Sherlock was already opening the door.

"Stop!"

**OoOOooOOoo**

******_(_ ****_J_ ****_ohn)_**

John's voice sounded more desperate than he predicted. He should let Sherlock go away, he should be happy that Sherlock was leaving him alone, that he seemed to understand that John needed some time. Why was he shouting like a lunatic in his own living room? Why were his hands shaking, why was his blood running cold?

Why couldn't he bring himself to let Sherlock walk out the door? He should. He bloody well should let Sherlock go to hell. Why did he still care so much? Bloody Sherlock Holmes. Always John's weak spot.

John was certain things wouldn't be like they were before The Fall, he knew he was broken, he knew he couldn't trust Sherlock. But John discovered that he couldn't lose Sherlock again. He just couldn't let the detective leave through that door and wander lost.

"Where are you staying?" John asked, awkwardly. He wasn't used to caring anymore. It had to be Sherlock Holmes to put him through this again. He signed. "At a hotel? Do you have your own flat?"

Sherlock's shoulders lost some of their tension. The detective turned from the door and looked into John's eyes. "I'm staying in my family's house," Sherlock started, his voice insecure and shaken. "But it's been three years since I last had a home, if you must know".

John felt his own breath fail him. He let his gaze fall on the floor and paid some deserved attention to the carpet.

John didn't know what to think. Sherlock would never admit a thing like that. What was he doing? Was this some kind of experiment? Was he trying to manipulate John again? He must be, John thought. It was easier to assume Sherlock was being manipulative than to look at the truth so clear in the other man's eyes. No, John couldn't let himself fall for that. He couldn't just admit that he himself had felt homeless for the last three years, because he had learned that home was, actually, something connected to the tall man in front of him. No, John Watson would not fall for that, he'd be damned if Sherlock would just take him back after three years of lies.

John took a deep breath and signed for Sherlock to wait. John needed to think about that. What the hell was that storm of emotions he was feeling? Maybe he was having a panic attack. He was sweating.

"Jesus...," John said, sitting on the sofa and rubbing his face with his two hands, "... Just... Give me a minute."

John could feel himself slipping into shock. That was bloody fantastic, he thought. Just amazing. He wasn't in shock because the git had lied to him and showed up at his house after three years. No, he was in shock because Sherlock was about to go out through the door and John couldn't even think about that. No, he bloody well couldn't.

He wanted to want Sherlock to go away. He really wanted to do that. He wished he could just dismiss the bastard, shout at him, bruise him, shoot him. But he couldn't. At that moment he had to admit that he couldn't. He wasn't just refusing to react because he wanted to stay cold in front of Sherlock. He was actually paralyzed, he was genuinely confused and hurt. He was so hurt, and he couldn't bring himself to say anything, because he didn't know how to. He wanted to don't want Sherlock to stay, but it was obvious he did. He didn't want to want Sherlock to come back, but he needed just that. He wouldn't admit why, but the fucking prat had to come back home. John needed him to. He hated him. He just hated. He wanted to squash Sherlock like an insect, he wanted to hurt him. He just needed the idiot to come home.

When John snapped from his thoughts he found that the detective was exactly where he was when John had shouted at him to stop. His eyes were like a little child's. He seemed so lost, so afraid. John couldn't look at them for long, it was too much.

"Do you...," John sighed again. It wasn't easy. "... Do you want to come back?" He felt his heart turn in his chest when caught the sight of Sherlock's expression. Jesus, the man was a fucking apparition. How could he look so tired and be so beautiful? The bastard did that on purpose.

"I... John... It's the only thing I want," Sherlock said, leaning against the wall and nodding, seeming surprised by John's offer. "I can come back tomorrow, if you need some time."

"No!" There was John's command tone again. He didn't seem able to control himself, his voice was louder than he intended, his heart was pounding. Had he developed Tourettes or a brain tumor in the past hour? What the hell was happening? For God's sake. Sherlock seemed scared too. "Just stay here, will you? Just stay."

"I... Of course." Sherlock smiled, uncertain. "Dinner?"

John nodded. He couldn't trust his voice.


	2. Chapter 2

_**(Sherlock)**_

Not even in Sherlock's best assumptions, he had thought it was possible that John could accept him back home so easily. He supposed he should be happy, but something seemed off. He tried to wave it off, because emotions weren't his area, and he never seemed to get enough data to come to a definite deduction. It was a maddening spiral of possibilities, an amount of uncertainty that he, as a scientist, wasn't used to, and wasn't comfortable with.

As the days passed, things began the grow even more difficult for him.

Sherlock didn't feel home. He could see why. He didn't have any lab equipment to set, his microscope had been lost and he didn't even know how. He didn't have any experiment to run, he didn't feel comfortable bringing body parts to John's house – the way he had started to call Baker Street, even without noticing. He spent all the time he could at Bart's because he could use the lab and because Molly was the only person who wouldn't judge him. She'd become a good friend, Sherlock thought. Not that he would talk to her about John, but it was good to have her around. Beside Mycroft, she was the only one who had any idea of how Sherlock felt for those three long years.

After a few days, Molly realized Sherlock was avoiding going home and tried to approach the subject, but of course he had stopped her. He didn't feel like he had any right to complain. He had done something terrible, he deserved all the poor treatment he was getting. And the truth was that stay at home was almost making he feel sad – if he would allow himself such feelings. Which he did not, obviously.

Sherlock realized he couldn't make things right just by being himself, like he had always been around John. It didn't seem right. John looked like he regretted asking Sherlock to come back every single day. Sherlock preferred to spend the day outside the flat than to look at John and deduce that he was not welcome. Why had John asked Sherlock to stay if it wasn't what he wanted? Sherlock didn't know. Those stupid feelings didn't fit any reasonable deduction.

He had tried to include John in a case, after Lestrade called. Even when it was about work, Sherlock would find himself stammering about it, awkwardly, like he didn't even have the right to think John would follow him. John didn't. He dismissed Sherlock with a cold "No, thanks", and looked the other way. His shoes told Sherlock he would have a date that night. The detective refused to let himself think about a time when John would give up any date just to run through London with him.

That same night John brought his date back to the flat. Sherlock tried very hard not to complain. Obviously he couldn't bring himself to be the model flatmate, so he retired to his room and sat on the bed, with his arms around his knees. He supposed John had got used to living alone by now, so he would bring women back to the flat. Maybe he would do this constantly. Maybe Sherlock would have to get used to John's girlfriends. He wasn't sure he could do that.

At the back of his mind he started to ask himself what was he doing staying at John's house. Certainly he was staying because John didn't ask him to leave. But it was almost unnecessary. Maybe John was letting him deduce it? That would be too cruel for John, John wouldn't do that. But then again, John seemed so different. Everything looked so different around the flat and in John that the most reasonable thing to do would be to look for a flat of his own. He probably should do that, and he couldn't understand why he hadn't done it already.

He would surely miss Mrs. Hudson. Her reaction had been the most unexpected. The old woman had simply looked into his eyes and slapped his arm, trying to look reproachful. Well, she didn't succeed in the slightest. The two of them ended up drinking tea and eating some of the biscuits she had made, watching some crap telly. Sherlock had actually felt home that evening. Maybe Mrs. Hudson was looking for a flatmate of her own? Sherlock snorted to himself. The truth was that, after all he had done, he didn't have a home, and he spent his days working or wandering and then came back to the flat to sleep or change clothes.

Maybe he should spend more time with John, he thought by the end of the second week. Maybe he should stay in the flat more often. He tried, but he was bored. John never talked to him, and Sherlock surely didn't know how to do chit chat. He had never known. It had never been a problem, but now it was insufferable. They talked about the case Sherlock was on, he asked some medical questions, and probably John realized they were just dumb questions to get him to talk. He looked annoyed, so Sherlock gave up after the third dumb question. Yes, he knew what those marks around her ankles were, thank you very much.

Sherlock had a pretty easy deduction to do. Really. It was a matter of logic. John didn't talk to him. John made tea and never asked if he wanted any. John didn't want to work with him. John seemed happier with any other person than he looked around Sherlock, even Anderson would be able to deduce that. It was like the two of them lived in different flats, but with some common areas. These were the rational observations Sherlock could do. He could do others, if he would allow himself such nonsense in the middle of the night when he was bored. Such as: John didn't seem interest in his life anymore. John couldn't care less if he did get shot running after some criminal. John didn't care if he slept, or if he smoked his lungs off. Just right before dozing off to sleep, Sherlock would admit to himself that those were the most painful things. He wouldn't admit it in the morning, though. Obviously.

But, somehow, Sherlock couldn't convince himself that he should leave Baker Street behind. It was the most unreasonable and pitiful thing. He shouldn't allow himself to continue to live in a place he was hardly welcome! And for what? He didn't know. It didn't make any sense to him. It didn't make any sense that he didn't feel welcome in his own home. Why he was still babbling about home? That flat wasn't his home anymore. Sherlock had to face that simple fact. Three years changed everything. And he had to accept that. Why couldn't he just accept the facts? Facts. How could you possibly argue with them?

The middle of the third week was most helpful convincing Sherlock that he should leave.

After some time trying to ask John about his violin, Sherlock finally managed to ask. He didn't even understand why he was so worried about it, it was his violin, after all. John would know about it. Sherlock was feeling better, perhaps he could play some easy piece.

He paced into the living room. John had just arrived home, he seemed distressed. Maybe he could play to calm him down? John always liked Sherlock's violin. Sherlock felt the urge to ask what had happened, but he knew he wouldn't be welcome. John would prefer a friend to talk about it. He smelled like hospital. Oh. But he didn't have work today. No, it wasn't hospital. The morgue. What was John doing at the morgue? Should he ask? John would probably say it wasn't his business. He didn't seem sad, he seemed angry. No, he wouldn't want to talk about it.

"Hi... Sorry. I was thinking...," Sherlock stumbled on his words, feeling like a fool. "... Did you keep my violin?" He was tired of feeling embarrassed about nothing in particular in his own house. Really, stupid human emotions.

"No," John snapped, not even looking from the kettle he was filling with enough watter for just one mug, of course.

"But Mycroft told me you didn't send it to him... Where is it?" Sherlock felt a pang in his heart. He wasn't fond of sentiments, but he would like to have his grandfather's Stradivarius back, thank you very much, indeed.

"I burned it!" There was John shouting again, for no particular reason.

"Oh," Sherlock flinched at the sound of John's voice. He could see the truth, but that didn't make it any less hurtful. "You... I see. Okay," Sherlock went back to his room, where he spent most of his time on the flat, like a grounded teenager.

Well, that was enough for his deductions, really.

******Need my own flat. Central London. Small one. -SH**

******Is this wise? -MH**

******Are you helping me or not? -SH**

******What is the matter? -MH**

******John just told me he burned my violin. -SH**

******I see. He didn't, though. -MH**

******Obviously. But that's enough, don't you think? -SH**

******He can't keep grandpa's violin. I'll let you know about the flat. -MH**

******Yes, I'll look for it when I'm leaving. -SH**

Sherlock sighed. At least those three years had brought him and his brother closer together. Maybe Mycroft felt guilt about his part in Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock. It didn't matter. Mycroft had been very helpful and protective of him when he needed.

Yes, he would prefer to have John back by his side as his loyal friend, but that didn't seem to be possible anymore. He allowed himself a moment of commiseration towards his own life. It seemed like he was still traveling, that he had never come back home, because there wasn't a home anymore. Yes, that must be what sadness felt like; maybe grief. He was losing his home again, losing John again, but it was for the best. Sherlock was absolutely incapable of dealing with John because the doctor wouldn't say anything, and Sherlock wasn't a therapist. He didn't know how to approach the subject. He didn't even know how to talk to John about the tea. He hated feeling so lost, like something was going on and he couldn't see what it was. It wasn't his area, and he wouldn't let himself go mad wanting to stay close to John if the doctor didn't want it.

Maybe that was the point, after all. He had protected John to let him live the life he wanted, not to save him for his own. It would have been good, though, he thought. It would have been good to have John back, if John wanted. But he clearly didn't. And Sherlock couldn't let those paralytic feelings get in his way. He knew he was on edge. He needed his own space, where he could be on his moods alone, feeling bored and depressed as much as he liked. He couldn't let himself show vulnerability where he was. It was the most unsettling feeling.

Yes, that must be what sadness felt like. Sherlock brushed a stupid tear away. No, he was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He had lived without John Watson for more than thirty years, he could very well resume his life without him again. It would be gray and lonely, it would be boring and dull, he wouldn't function so well, but then again, he wasn't functioning living with John anymore.

It was the logic thing to do. One could only argue with logic for some time.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(John)**_

John didn't know what the fuck he was doing. He didn't. Burned? What the hell was that? Of course he hadn't burned the damn thing, it had been neatly safe in his wardrobe for the past three years with bow and all, just like the microscope. He knew Sherlock would have deduced that much. John was just embarrassing himself now. What the hell was he doing?

He had spent the shittiest afternoon of all at the morgue, after Lestrade had texted about a body and asked for his help as a doctor. He didn't know why exactly Lestrade had asked for his help, but he wasn't doing anything, and staying home with Sherlock was unbearable. So, he went only to get pretty damn angry with Molly when she started to talk about Sherlock as if she knew him better than anyone else. John had to hold himself back, because he couldn't just snap and jump on Molly now, could he? Of course not. He was a reasonable man, a good man, the sane Doctor Watson. He had to remember himself that most people didn't know he was going insane. He was, at least he felt like he was.

Molly just wouldn't shut up about it. It had been disturbing. Not only had she told him things he didn't want to hear, she actually thought she had the right to say it! As if she knew him better than John did. How could she possibly know? Had she spent three years of her life mourning and grieving a friend that wasn't dead? - he asked her, only to hear her say that Sherlock had missed him too. How could she possibly know that? How could she or anyone else possibly know about what it had meant not to have Sherlock around for those three years? Nobody could know that, nobody lived with him, nobody knew him the way John did, nobody had buried the greatest years of their own lives because it was too hurtful to remember anything.

Who did Molly think she was to lecture John about Sherlock? Really, the shit he had to put up with! He wasn't used to that. He wasn't used to having to discuss Sherlock, and he wasn't used to people telling him that he could be wrong in the way of dealing with Sherlock. Not that he had been dealing with the detective anyway.

Yes, the two of them were living different lives, but what could anyone expect from him? Loving and caring and making tea and following Sherlock around like a puppy after everything he had been through? Nope. Not happening.

John paced into his room. He was so bloody angry, he couldn't even understand his own anger towards Molly. He couldn't even understand what he had just told Sherlock about his violin. He was so blindly angry that he shouted the first thing that he could come up with. He hadn't thought about that. Before seeing Molly at the morgue, John had actually thought about returning Sherlock's violin. Sherlock was just taking too long to ask about it.

After having to listen to Molly lecturing him, John's temper went through the roof and he came back home without even thinking properly. He just left Lestrade behind and tucked his hands in his pockets, trying very hard not to look like a psychopath babbling away to himself on the street. How could Molly possibly think she had any right to say that Sherlock didn't deserve being hurt? How could she possibly know anything about being hurt at all?

John sat on his bed and breathed deeply. For the past weeks his days had been like this. He was a storm of emotions, and John had done what he could to bury it all inside himself and not let it out. What he could do not to drown in a sea of unresolved feelings was to disregard Sherlock Holmes completely. No, John wouldn't make his tea, he wouldn't offer dinner, he wouldn't pick up his dirty clothes like he did before. He would not. He couldn't. How could he pretend those three years hadn't happened and killed a great part of him? He could not, and he wouldn't. Molly and Sherlock Holmes be damned. Was he jealous? He was, wasn't he? Definitely. That was the worst part of it all. After everything Sherlock had put him through, he still felt his heart hammer in his ears every time he ran into Sherlock in the living room or in the kitchen. The git was like a giraffe in the middle of the room, he took all the space in it. John wanted to shoot him right between the eyes. He wanted to thump him and not save his nose and teeth this time. He wanted to grab him by his collar and shove him on the kitchen table. He wanted to stick his tongue in his throat, he wanted to take Sherlock right on the fucking table.

Yes, he was going mad.

There he was. Doctor John Watson, ex-soldier, good man, going insane by the resurrection of his best friend. Pitiful, really. When did his life became this circus? Mike was the one to blame, probably.

After Sherlock's return, John became aware of the weight he had been carrying on his shoulders since The Fall. Because when he was grieving then, he buried everything at once. He hid it from everybody, he hid it from himself. He kept his memories in a safe place inside his own mind, and only reached them in the safety of his own room and only now and then. He kept them safe from everyone. He had never wanted to share his grief, he had never wanted people talking about it, knowing about it. It was his pain and his alone.

And now he had to forget everything, because for the world it didn't matter that he had missed his best friend, the most important person of his life. Sherlock was alive and John was supposed to be happy for being fooled for three years? He was supposed to be grateful for being the greatest example of Sherlock's abilities to make people look like idiots? Oh, now, thank you very much, John was very grateful, indeed.

He sighed.

He couldn't even remember morphing into this puddle of bitterness. When did it happened? When had he become so bitter and angry?

He sighed again.

This wasn't like him, he knew that. But he also knew he wasn't the same John Watson anymore. And he couldn't help but feel broken when people just assumed he would resume his life with Sherlock without even flinching. Was he that obvious? Were his stupid feelings that obvious that Sherlock could assume he would accept him back like nothing had happened, but not so obvious that the detective couldn't have thought about them before making him watch that hateful fall?

John was so bitter. He knew.

He let his face fall into his hands. Sherlock had sacrificed a lot too. John knew that. He knew, but he couldn't let go of his anger and let the detective in again. He just couldn't. He supposed he should have been grateful for being saved, but he wasn't. He was a soldier, not a princess, he was used to saving, not to being saved. He didn't know how he felt about that.

To tell the truth, he didn't know how he felt about any of it. Most of the times he wanted to make Sherlock hurt. It was a stupid feeling, he knew. But it was what he felt. Fortunately, the detective seemed oblivious about it. Sherlock seemed oblivious about anything concerning John. Yes, John had snapped him a few times. Yes, John had shut him down completely. What was he thinking? That Sherlock was going to be around for him to hurt for three years just to make it even? This was idiotic, John knew. He felt bad, but he couldn't bring himself to do any other thing. Sherlock seemed defeated. How could he give up so easily? Bloody Holmes.

And on top of all that, there was that certainty that John couldn't lose him again. Although he refused to work with the detective, and unknown to Sherlock, every time the mad genius escaped safe and sound from a chase, John would receive a text from Lestrade. John was always breaking into the detective's room to look for plates and mugs, just to see if Sherlock was eating anything. John had talked to Mrs. Hudson and he took note of every pastry, scone or muffin she made him eat.

He searched for bottles, for cigarettes. No, John couldn't bring himself to admit he still cared, but he still cared. He cared even more now that he knew what was like not having him around. John would even sniff that fucking scarf, for God's sake, and he would tell himself that he was looking for traces of smoke. He would tell himself that even after sniffing the damn thing for five minutes. Yes, he was ridiculous. He felt ridiculous, thank you very much.

He felt broken, and he guessed that was exactly what he was.

Two days after that awful chat with Molly, John was heading home from the surgery when that familiar black car pulled over. John sighed.

"Mycroft, I'm not really in the mood fo-"

"I am not asking this time, Doctor Watson. Just get in the car," Mycroft said, unmoved. He had the scariest expression John had ever seen on his face. The doctor set beside him and slammed the door. The car pulled away.

John felt his heart skip a beat. "Is Sherlock alright?" He asked, alarmed.

"And how, exactly, would this be any of your concern at the present moment? He is, however, perfectly well; and thank you for asking," Mycroft answered him calmly. The British Government could play this game.

They both fell silent. John didn't know what to think about Mycroft's words, and he didn't care, but he had to admit that he was puzzled by the man's behavior.

They headed to Mycroft's office. The British Government told Anthea not to let anyone disturb their meeting. His face was severe, cold. He directed John to the chair in front of his desk.

"No tea today?" John asked, intrigued. Normally Mycroft would drag him to some mysterious cafe, and take his time to eat any cake he could.

"Tell me, Doctor Watson, why don't you just ask him to leave?" Mycroft asked, looking straight into John's eyes, disregarding the doctor's question.

"What? This is none of your business!" John was already feeling exasperated. How he hated talking about Sherlock!

"My brother's welfare is of my concern. And only mine now, since you decided to turn your back on him," Mycroft said, looking at John with hard features and cold eyes. "I know you've been hurt, I know you mourned him, and I know you cared. I even know you loved him, no need to pretend, I don't care about that, since you don't either. You have clearly decided you don't want him back with you, so I'll reinforce my question: why don't you just ask him to leave?"

John felt his heart hammering. He was angry but must of all, he was ashamed. He didn't know how to answer. He had asked himself that question many times. "He would leave if he wanted, he is not a child!" John said, defensively.

Mycroft sighed. "No, he is not. He is not a child, but you seem to be the one who doesn't realize that. He is a great man. And he sacrificed everything he had so that he could keep you safe. And you are just killing him yourself."

John couldn't believe he was being lectured by Mycroft bloody Holmes about Sherlock bloody Holmes. Seriously, what was it with people thinking they knew Sherlock so well? "Now, you are going to tell me that I am what? Hurting his feelings?" John asked, bitterly.

Mycroft's features turned even harder. "Yes, you are. You and I both know he has feelings, although he likes to dismiss them. But you know very well that he has feelings and that he cares. He cares about you more than he cares about himself."

John snorted. "I can't believe this, are we talking about the same person here?"

Mycroft slammed his fist on his desk. His eyes were wide. Those three years had changed many things, indeed. "Can you stop being so self-absorbed for a minute? Do you think you have the right to talk about him like that because you cared for him for two years? Well, he died for three years to keep you safe, John, and you didn't show a shred of gratitude. Now tell me, how exactly are you better than him?"

John stared at Mycroft. He had never seen him so moved. John couldn't bring himself to say anything.

Mycroft held his gaze into John's eyes. "How can you think you are the one with a heart when you are clearly only trying to hurt him?"

"I am not trying to do anything, I have my own problems to take care of," John answered. He was feeling like a child. And worst of all, in the back of his heart, he felt he needed the lecture.

"Yes, you are, Dr. Watson. I think you can admit that to yourself. You are bitter. Sherlock understands that. But I don't care. You are hurting him and that's all I am concerned at this moment."

"Are you threatening me? Isn't this a little too much?" John asked, cocking an eye brown. He knew he deserved, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't resist it.

"You see, I learned a few things about feelings myself these past three years," Mycroft started, softening his features for a while. "I care about my brother, so I have to cover my disadvantage," he said, giving one of his threatening smiles.

John was actually unsettled. He didn't say anything.

"It would be preferable if you two could actually set everything right, but you don't seem to want that. I understand that, although I really do think you are wrong. I can't let you keep hurting my brother like that, John. It's been a month, and you have asked him to move back in so you could treat him like a ghost," Mycroft sighed. "Look, Sherlock is not a child, but he doesn't know how to deal with his feelings for you, this is most obvious. He did actually try to talk to you and I know that, and you didn't listen."

"This is my bloody life, you don't get to decide anything," John snapped.

"Fair enough. It is, in fact, you life, but it is my brother's as well, so I will kindly ask you to leave him alone," Mycroft said, in that threatening tone of his.

John snorted. "I live with him, that's not your call".

Mycroft smiled. "He is moving out in the next few days, Dr. Watson. So I'll ask you again to leave him alone".

John felt the floor slowly vanishing under his feet. No. That was Mycroft being a manipulative bastard. Sherlock couldn't leave Baker Street. England would fall and all that. "He wouldn't leave Baker Street," John managed after some time.

Mycroft looked amused. "And why wouldn't he? Because it's home? No, it's not. You have ensured that it isn't. You said it yourself, he would leave if he wanted. You made him want to leave, so I am convinced that it's settled."

"You had to be the one breaking the news? Couldn't he do this himself?" John asked, all his bitterness filling his eyes.

"I am not informing you that he is moving out, Dr. Watson. I am asking you to stay away from him from now on. He doesn't know how to deal with your indifference. And honestly, why would he?" Mycroft cocked an eye brown. John was fuming.

"Why? Because he faked his own death! Because I was in the dark for three fucking years! Do you people not remember that? Of course not, I was the only idiot who actually believed it!"

"Sherlock remembers this every day, and you know that. That's the only reason he is still in that flat, he is sorry, but you don't care about that," Mycroft snapped. "Where is his violin, John? He'll be needing that, his doctors said he should try it."

John felt his heart turn in his chest. Sherlock had doctors and neither one of them was him. Why did he have more than one doctor? Why didn't John know that? Of course, because he had tried really hard not to look at Sherlock long enough to see anything. He had actually chosen this. How could he do that? Of all people, Mycroft was right.

Mycroft sighed at the oblivion stated in John's eyes. "You really haven't let him say anything, have you? One of the snipers broke his left hand and he couldn't get the proper treatment at the time. They had to re-break it at the hospital. He is actually going to physiotherapy every week, but I understand you wouldn't know about that."

John stared at Mycroft for a while. The image of Sherlock being hurt and helpless and actually going to a medical appointment every week without John having to drag him made John feel sick. When had they grown apart like that? Had it been when Sherlock died, or when he came back and John refused to regard him in any way? John didn't know. He truly didn't.

"Well, Dr. Watson. I presume you understood."

"Was this his only injury?" John asked, because he didn't know how not to. In fact, at that moment, he couldn't understand how he could have been so selfish. Mycroft snorted, and John felt his blood run cold.

"Sherlock was shot in the shoulder, he was stabbed almost ten times, he had broke four ribs, two of them twice, Dr. Watson. Can you believe you were his doctor at some point?" Mycroft asked, bitterly. The elder Holmes was a mirror of John's feelings, thinking his brother was being poorly treated by John. It was like a clash of titans. So much anger and bitterness that the air in the room seemed heavy.

"No," John answered on an impulse. He rubbed his face with his right hand, because his left one was far from steady. He was really shaken, not because of Mycroft, but for knowing that Sherlock had been so badly injured and he, a doctor, hadn't even paid any attention. He was so busy cataloging his own wounds, his own anger that he overlooked Sherlock, and he knew exactly what he was doing. What kind of doctor was he? Had he wiped his arse with the Hippocratic Oath? What kind of soldier would abandon his brother in arms like that because he is not feeling like facing his own bloody heart? Really, John was now feeling the weight of his own decisions. Of all people, he had to face Mycroft and admit that he could be right, he had spent too much time wanting to hurt Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his hands together. "Look, John, he deserved a chance of explaining himself. You didn't listen to him when he talked. You are better than him at feelings, but if you don't help him is hardly his fault if he can't guess what you want. He can't deduce, he is confused, if you must know. I met him yesterday. I didn't try my best to keep him alive for three years for you to hurt him now."

John seemed lost. He was.

He was looking inside himself for the first time, admitting that maybe he had done something as bad as what Sherlock had. He could have shouted, he could have thumped him, he could have had any reaction, he knew Sherlock would accept that, his face in that first day was so open, he was really sorry. John couldn't admit that because he was busy being bitter and hiding everything deep down.

Mycroft was running thin on patience. Clearly his only concern was Sherlock and he wasn't so interested in John's guilty crises. He had a country to run, and he was feeling a bit angry himself. Any observer could deduce that those three years had really changed his m. o. in dealing with his little brother. "I know you kept his microscope as well, he doesn't know about that, but I'd like you to give it back to him. Have you thought about this? You are holding on the two things that could make him feel home. His violin, which he doesn't even know if he can play anymore, and this is hurtful enough for him, and his microscope, forcing him to stay away from your house to do his experiments. So, please, return his things to him, and leave him alone. He will do the same, he won't harass you, you can be sure of that. Now, if you please excuse me, I have work to do."

"Wait," John said, without thinking. He didn't know what to say, but he as sure as hell didn't trust his own knees to try to stand up just yet. He prayed to God he wouldn't have any break down in front of Mycroft Holmes, because that situation was humiliating enough as it was. John opened and closed his left hand a couple of times. Yes, he was on the edge of a cliff, it was what this felt like. Stupid Mycroft. How could he be right about those things? The cold, inhuman British Government? John sighed. "Did he kill anyone?" He asked, because he understood war, he could talk about it without sobbing like a little child. He had to. That wasn't about him anymore, it was about Sherlock.

Mycroft looked amused. "You soldiers can scent those things, I see. Yes, he did," Mycroft gave an ironic smile. "No, it wasn't necessary, he overdid it. Moran, one of the snippers and the second in command of Moriarty's network. It's not hard to guess whom Moran was designated to kill three years ago," he finished with an accusatory glance.

"Right," John snapped and stood up, abruptly. He had to get away from there as soon as he could, while he still could. Things were about to get ugly. He had to think. He was feeling angry and sad. Mycroft Holmes was the last person in the world he wanted to be with.

"Good-bye, Dr. Watson. And do think about what you will do, because I won't have you harming my brother. You had your chance to be angry," Mycroft said, impassive. He waved a hand and dismissed John, who haply got out of the room.

John was confused. And he felt asphyxiated.

Was Sherlock really leaving Baker Street? John wasn't sure he trusted Mycroft. That fat bastard could very well be lying. John didn't know.

He needed to talk to someone about that, but really, who did he have to talk about it?

He sent a text to Molly and, thanks to God, she accepted to meet him in an hour.

Bloody Holmes. Bloody Fucking Holmes. Now they were like a mob apparently. When did Mycroft became so protective? When did Mycroft became Sherlock's heart? And since when did John become such a truly selfish bastard himself that he didn't even have the right to judge Mycroft?

The world was upside down.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(Sherlock)**_

At Baker Street, Sherlock himself was going to have a nice chat with the only lady in his heart. Mrs. Hudson and her delicious scones were waiting for him with a tray with tea and milk.

He had already packed his clothes. He didn't have many things, because the majority of them were still at his family's house. He hadn't moved them back to Baker Street, and now it seemed it had been for the best. Mycroft had found a flat in Montague Street and said he was taking care of tracking his microscope. Sherlock didn't know how his brother would do that, and he didn't care. His plan was to leave the next morning, right after getting his violin back. If he could avoid John maybe it would be even better. Sherlock didn't want to think about that. He had already thought about it for the past two days and allowed himself some pitiful tears. But to think he was following a reasonable logic made him feel a little better. It was the only train of thoughts about the subject that he could deduce properly.

Mrs. Hudson had one of those sweet smiles of hers in her face. Sherlock could tell she knew he was a bit shaken, and was afraid she would want to talk about it. She probably would, but he had to break the news for her. It wouldn't be so bad, after all, he had been gone for three years, he would hardly be missed after only a month of his return.

They ate the scones watching the telly. Honestly, Sherlock didn't understand how people could stand those talk shows. They were so dull, people were so dull. Not being him must be really relaxing, he thought with a smirk. He would miss Mrs. Hudson and he had missed her those three years. She was a motherly figure, and she was the only one who would hug Sherlock, even if he didn't want it, just to show him that yes, he did want it. Sherlock shook his head. That kind of sentiment was getting out of hand. Baker Street was like this giant hole of emotions and he couldn't bear it. It was maddening.

"So, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began awkwardly. She looked at him as if she already knew. She probably did, the woman was a mother hen. He smirked. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson said in that motherly way only she could have. "Are you sure? You two are being stubborn like two five-year-olds, Sherlock," she said sipping her tea.

Sherlock dismissed her line. It was pointless to argue about that. He wasn't being stubborn, he just couldn't understand and wanted to have his own home. "It's not far," Sherlock told her with a sincere smile. He would really miss her. "You could pop around and bake me some scones once in a while," Sherlock teased with a mouthful full of scone and tea.

Mrs. Hudson tried to give him a severe look, but smirked. "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

"Of course, who would think that?" Sherlock smiled.

They fell in a comfortable silence finishing their tea and watching the telly. After some minutes, Mrs. Hudson broke it.

"He cares, Sherlock," she started. "He really does, he is just lost, the poor thing," she said with a sad smile. Knowing that the detective wouldn't say anything, she continued. "I was here with him for the past three years, he is not right, he's been truly hurt. He is not the same John you left behind, but it's not all his fault, is it?" She gave him a reproachful glance.

"It's for the best, Mrs. Hudson, please, just leave it," Sherlock said, looking at his cup with interest.

"You know I can't do that," she said with a concerned smile. "You have to know that he cares. And he is still taking care of you, even if you don't see it," she confessed.

Sherlock stopped for an instant, just to look at her. What did she mean? Oh. All those baked goodies. It was John's plan, wasn't it? Of course. John would know Sherlock couldn't resist any sweets. John was taking note of what he ate, he was doing what he could so Sherlock could eat. That was news. Sherlock couldn't suppress his smile. _Ah, the always unpredictable John._ Sherlock felt immediately sad. He missed John, he missed John being boring about eating and sleeping. He sighed and left his cup on the coffee table. Obviously he wouldn't say anything, it was sign enough for Mrs. Hudson.

"He shut himself down completely when you died, he is incredibly bitter, I would have never thought John could be like that, but I suppose one can understand, he lost the love of his life only to discover it was all a lie," Mrs. Hudson said. Glancing at Sherlock and capturing his confused expression, she sighed. Those two were rather stupid for a genius and a doctor. "Come on, Sherlock, can't you see that? Can't you tell the effect of your death had on him?"

"I... I don't know what to do," Sherlock confessed. That was the effect of Mrs. Hudson's motherly tone on him. The not-housekeeper.

"I don't know either. And I haven't for the past three years. I should have forced him to talk about it, but he couldn't," she said, making Sherlock look completely puzzled and oblivious. Really, what a stupid genius. "He haven't talked about you for three years, Sherlock. He didn't talk to anyone about that, and he said to me that he could never do it. Some part of him died with you that day. I suppose that is a problem now, since you are clearly not dead, and he is hurt, angry and doesn't know how to deal with you or with himself," she sighed. Those two grown ups made her hip ache with worrying.

Sherlock hated to admit it, but he was listening to every single word Mrs. Hudson was saying. Who else could know John like that? Mycroft could say what he wanted, but Mrs. Hudson was the one living near John for all that time.

Why couldn't John talk about him? Had he talked to his therapist? He knew he had hurt John, but not that much, not in that way. John had lost friends in war, and had survived their loss. Yes, probably making John watch him jump from a roof was not one of his best moments. Sherlock sighed. That's why he didn't let emotions get in his way. They were incredibly messy and clouded the issue. How could anyone understand what John was thinking or feeling if John himself couldn't explain? Well, that was asking too much of Sherlock Holmes, this was not his area. He hated that sense of helplessness. He wished he could put John under the lens of his microscope and understand. And that was a stupid thought, after all he didn't know what had become of his microscope.

"He said he had burned my violin," Sherlock said. If anyone would know where it was, it would be Mrs. Hudson. Not that she was their housekeeper, obviously. But she would. And he still wanted it back. He missed it more than he would admit.

Mrs. Hudson made a face. "That was just him being silly. It's perfectly fine in his wardrobe, the case is spotless. I think he had even kept the cloth you used to wipe it with," she said, giving him a smile and receiving other in return. "It's there, together with your microscope, dear, he could never give that thing up. It was too meaningful to you, I suppose, he couldn't give it away," she finished, collecting their cups and going to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone for a while. She knew he needed some space. The woman had a motherly gift.

That was definitely news, and Sherlock didn't expect that. John had kept his microscope, even if he did hate his experiments. What was that? Sentiment? Probably. John moved on, he rearranged the flat, he gave away his clothes, he returned his books and boxes to Mycroft, but he didn't return the two of Sherlock's most important belongings. John would know that. Sherlock wouldn't have to say it.

He could understand the violin, it was a family memorabilia, it was a beautiful instrument, it was easy to keep, it was light. But why keep a microscope? It's heavy, it's too big to fit in a wardrobe. Had John rearranged his own clothes to fit the microscope with his belongings? That didn't make any sense. John was a doctor, he could have donated it to Bart's. He could have. But he didn't. Three years after he had died and John couldn't give his microscope away. Even if he hated his experiments, he couldn't give the thing away.

Sherlock sighed. Sentiments didn't make any sense.

So, John kept those two things. Those two perfect things. The things Sherlock liked the most, the things that truly made him feel like home. And John was keeping them from him. But Sherlock was home, why couldn't John just return them and make him feel like home? Feel. That stupid word. John was refusing to make him feel like home again. What was he expecting? That he earned it? Oh. That could make sense. How could he do that? He could figure it out, if just John would help him. But John wouldn't say a damn thing.

John had tried to keep him home for three years by keeping those things with him.

That made sense. Did it? Why?

Sherlock's train of thought was at full speed. Mrs. Hudson came back from the kitchen and gave him a knowing smile. "So, any conclusions, dear?"

Sherlock snapped from his mental rush. He couldn't go far, anyway, human emotions confused his deductions. "John have kept my things," he said, confused. "I didn't know about my microscope, I'm not sure I understand that."

Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek. "He kept the most important things with him. I suppose he wanted to keep everything, but he had to pretend he was okay. He hid those things, he didn't talk about it with anyone. He couldn't let them go, because he couldn't let you go. Can you understand that?" She asked. The lady was an angel.

Sherlock nodded. Honestly, he could understand that, Mrs. Hudson didn't have to be so condescending. But he wouldn't argue with her for a thing in the world. "I'd like them back, I'd like to take them with me to the new flat," he said, uncertain. He was moving out, he had to remember himself about it. Maybe it was still for the best, because he couldn't live with John, knowing everything he knew now and not talking to John about it.

"You'll have to ask him for them. Please, don't break into his room and run away in the middle of night," Mrs. Hudson told him with a knowing look. Yes, she just knew, she couldn't be more motherly than that. "Can't you just talk to him?"

Sherlock snorted. He, Sherlock Holmes, had to talk about feelings with John, who didn't want to talk about anything in the first place. It wouldn't be possible. How could he talk to someone who didn't want to talk? He couldn't bloody well force it now, could he? There he was, the world's only consulting detective, swearing like a lunatic. Mycroft wouldn't approve that.

Mrs. Hudson knew better than to wait for an answer. "At least wait to say good-bye to him, don't sneak out taking all your things and leaving him alone again, okay? I'm not sure how he would take that. Don't take the violin and the microscope by force, that would be much more than a 'bit not good' as you two always say," she told him with a smile.

Sherlock smiled back. Yes, he had always trusted John to tell him what it was good or not good. That's why he was now so lost, how would he know if John wasn't there to tell him? Probably pretend to be dead for three years was more than not good. But he was trying, wasn't he? He didn't make any mess, he didn't do any experiment, he didn't stay in the living room for long, he didn't ask for tea, he never disturbed John. Was that good? Was that a bit not good? Was that more than a bit not good? How would he know? He wouldn't. And that was that.

Stupid human emotions. How do people live like this, thinking about these things that don't make any sense? Sherlock could almost hear John say something like "you don't have to think, just feel", or any such nonsense. He missed John's nonsenses. His nonsenses were the most endearing ones.

Sherlock stood up. He had to be alone, to think and to gather the rest of his things. For a second he even thought about breaking into John's room. He was Sherlock Holmes and that was who he was. But he stopped and decided to do what Mrs Hudson had asked. "I have to go now," he said, abruptly. He knew she wouldn't take it badly, she was used to it. "I'll knock tomorrow when I'm leaving," he said, already dashing upstairs.

He ran upstairs and locked himself in his room.

He changed his clothes and lay on his bed to think and to resist the impulse of talking to John again. He was tired of trying and never succeeding. Sherlock wasn't used to not get what he wanted.

That night was the one night he missed his violin even more than how he missed his John.

Oh.

___His John._

That was odd.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(John)**_

John came home late that night.

The chat with Molly had been disturbing and sad. He had felt more jealous than he would like to admit, and he felt like a stupid teenager, because he could see that Molly felt exactly the same way. That was humiliating, two grown ups talking about the most clueless man in the whole world, like two teenagers in love. Now that was just pitiful. Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

John was more than a little drunk. He had to drink to have that talk with Molly, and Mycroft had ended any shred of hunger he felt the night after, so no dinner.

At least he listened more than he talked. John was not good at talking about feelings, no matter what people could think. Maybe they think he was sensitive because compared to Sherlock even a bag of frozen peas would sound the most romantic and tender person in the world. But John wasn't good at it, it was clear. He had avoided talking about Sherlock for three years, and that alone told him everything. And Molly just talked freely. John didn't know how she could do it, but she'd even talked even about her own feelings. Well, she really didn't have to bother, it was all quite obvious.

John knew it hadn't been easy for her to admit that John was the only thing Sherlock thought about when he decided to jump from the roof. And that was because she probably assumed that he and Sherlock were a couple. For the first time, he didn't bother to correct. What did that say about him? Sod it, he didn't want to think about that.

Anyway, they had kept contact, apparently. Not that Sherlock was the type that would send post cards or anything – that'd be great: "Hi, Molly, just killed a snipper, unnecessarily, just for revenge". Great, really –, but he sent e-mails, she said. Every other month. And she said it was clear that they were all excuses to ask about John. That was unthinkable. John couldn't picture Sherlock Holmes worrying that much about him. But then maybe he was just being bitter. Molly said that the homeless network took some pictures of him and she sent them to Sherlock. That was unsettling, he didn't know what to think about that. Every damn person thought he or she could just take pictures of John, from the British Government to the homeless guy on the bench in Regent's Park. That was ridiculous, it made him smile. It was almost like he was important, or something. Laughable. John wasn't important to anyone. The only person to whom he was important had died three years ago. Oh, right, that person wasn't dead. Not so important, after all.

Great. Just great, John thought rubbing his face with his hands.

There he was, alone in his room, trying to think and being caught by his own bitterness. That was clearly getting out of hand. He couldn't work out exactly when he had morphed into this bitter man, who tried to hurt his best friend, because he couldn't let go of his own pain. He himself didn't understand how Sherlock's death had broken him down so deeply. It was sad. And he had to admit that, instead of just running like he had done for all those years. And he had to admit that he was angry and disappointed with Sherlock not only because of the whole dead-not-so-dead thing, but because now he had to remember, had to face it, and it was just sad and difficult, and he didn't want to bloody do it, damn it. He didn't.

Yes, he could just give up, then. Fuck Sherlock Holmes and his brain, his deductions, his intelligence. John could just leave it that way, maybe Sherlock would move out and that was that. John would never talk to him again, or he would be killed and his body would vanish, and the British Government would be the one to be thanked for that. Yes, that was most definitely a good option. John had been pretty fine without Sherlock all those years. Look at John, he is perfect, perfect. Fucking joyful. That was a great option. Brilliant.

Stupid. That was just stupid. He couldn't let the fucking Sherlock Holmes leave. The last time, the day Sherlock came back, he'd gone into shock just from thinking Sherlock would leave through the door. While his mind was confused and bitter, his own body had reacted pretty fast. And it screamed "No, don't let the bastard leave again, you stupid idiot!". He couldn't risk that again.

John sighed. He felt like he was facing not only the last month, but the emotional fallout of last three years. He would have to face everything that he had buried so neatly. He stood up and picked up the violin in his wardrobe. How could he ever have said he had burned? At least Sherlock knew he wouldn't do it. He would never burn something so important. He missed hearing in the middle of the night. He had missed for so long. In the first year after Sherlock had died, John would wake up in the middle of the night, swearing to God he had just heard Tchaikovsky downstairs. And for the past month he acted like he didn't missed it, just to hurt Sherlock keeping his violin away from him. Sherlock must miss it, John thought.

He frowned.

Sherlock might not be able to play again. But he wouldn't know, because John had kept his violin, for no good reason. He was acting like a spoiled child. How many times had he told off Sherlock for behaving like that? And in the end it was the detective who had sacrificed everything to keep John safe and he was the one being selfish. Well, that was a first. Damn it.

Sherlock might never be able to play his violin again. That thought alone made John hurt so much. The tears were burning. It could have sounded stupid, but it was something so important to him, and to them. And he risked it to keep everybody safe. And John wasn't around to take care of him. He probably wasn't doing his physiotherapy exercises on schedule. It was just like him to think his bones would just obey him, because he was intelligent and brilliant and amazing.

That was what he was.

Oh, fuck.

He was. John had to admit it, anyway. He had been something like a hero to give up everything he cared about and hide to run after criminals by himself. It hadn't been all fun, John knew now. He had been shot, for God's sake. He had been shot in the shoulder, John knew about that. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but that was a sense of duty that John knew very well. He was a soldier, ten years of his life had been lived by that calling. Those three years had changed Sherlock and John had to admit that he could see that, because he could. Sherlock wasn't demanding anything, he didn't even ask for tea, it was kind of sad, actually. Because those things never truly bothered John. If he was felling particularly fearless, he could even admit he missed the mad experiments. John smiled to himself. Now he couldn't admit that, could he? Sherlock would blow the damn kitchen just for fun if he knew that.

He had missed it everything. He still missed, because he wasn't allowing anything to be like the good old days. He wasn't allowing, he knew. He had to admit it, Mycroft – of all fucking people – was right. John was keeping from Sherlock the things he needed the most. He had kept them with him exactly because he knew how they were important to Sherlock. And now he was bloody well keeping them from the detective because of the same reason. And because he was angry and bitter. And hurt. That was just pitiful, because how would anything feel better if he couldn't even return the fucking violin? John was being unreasonable, and he knew exactly why. Sherlock Holmes had said this too many times for one to forget.

Stupid feelings, human emotions, sentiment and all that.

They weren't reasonable, and John knew. He just had to admit that he was behaving like a deceived widow. Or like a deceived teenager widow. Ludicrous.

That had to stop. He was a soldier, a war hero, thank you very much, he was not going to run away anymore. Everything was unpractical how it was, everybody was suffering, Sherlock was trying his best, even fucking Mycroft Holmes had changed and now protected his brother as if he was the most precious thing in the world – and he was. John couldn't behave like a coward anymore. It hurt, but he had to face it, damn it.

Where was he?

Oh, yes. Sentiment. Behaving like a widow.

Yes, that. John was truly fucked, he knew. He was hurting that much because he was probably madly in love with Sherlock Holmes and all that. But, if he was to be honest to himself, that was hardly news, and he would have to face it.

Sherlock cared about him more than he cared about his violin, his experiments and his own life. John had to give him that. It wasn't that bad. He couldn't ask for anything more than what Sherlock seemed ready to give. He'd returned, ready to be bruised, to be yelled at, and he even stuck around just to be ignored and not to drink tea at his own house. John's house, maybe Sherlock thought about it that way, Mycroft had said just like that. That was hurtful and it was inconceivable. Baker Street was their home, for fuck's sake. John would have to get that straight before it was too late. Obviously there was their home. Just to think he had made Sherlock feel unwelcome and hurt. Sherlock had said he hadn't have a home for three years. And John had just made sure he still didn't have one. Perfect. Well done, Doctor Watson. Congratulations.

Very good for a doctor and a soldier. So much for a good man, John thought.

He would have to clear things with Sherlock. The sooner the better. First thing in the morning.

John was too anxious, and only managed to sleep until four a.m. Of course he overslept. Of course he just snapped out of sleep, cursing himself for the time. He grabbed the violin and headed downstairs just to find Sherlock in the living room, fully dressed.

Sherlock and his suitcases. And a box.

Great.

It was really happening, and of course John's body was beginning to shut down. He would need a fucking shock blanket if he didn't take a deep breath. Or several deep breaths.

"John...?" Sherlock asked, alarmed, looking at John from the living room. He observed the violin, but John's pale face was the only thing he could see. "What happened?" The detective rushed to the foot of the stairs. "Are you alright?"

John nodded and motioned for Sherlock to wait. The detective nodded too and couldn't take his eyes from John's face at all. He looked so worried, John let himself think that it was the most adorable face he had ever seen. He blamed the shock, of course. But it was heartbreaking how beautiful the bastard was. Jesus Christ.

"What are those?" John pointed at the cases. He knew he was being obtuse. He almost wished Sherlock would tell him just that, but he knew he wouldn't, because he didn't feel comfortable for that anymore.

Sherlock frowned. "Those are cases," he tried, with a smirk that almost told John how stupid he was.

John seemed better, he paced into the living room and stood near the cases, but he didn't let go of the violin. "Well?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'm moving out," he said with a fake smile. One of those John knew because Sherlock used with everybody, except him. Well, not anymore apparently. Mycroft was so right. He was so right John could just kill that fat bastard.

John could swear he felt his knees fail. That was just great. He sat on the sofa and admitted to himself that he had developed a physical reaction that showed his Sherlock-separation anxiety. That was just brilliant, really. So much for psychosomatic limp. He would laugh if he could, but he couldn't.

Sherlock still had that worried expression on his face. He rushed to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water for John, looking scared. He was oblivious of the reason. "Are you ill?"

John shook his head. He breathed because breath was good. It was good, because he was ready to go down a road that he had to take. He just had to.

"No," he managed. He breathed some more. "This is a bloody psychosomatic reaction I have every time you say you are leaving because I can't bring myself to say anything," John said, sounding much more calm than he felt. He wasn't worried about what he had to say. He now admitted to himself that he was worried about the fucking cases.

Sherlock frowned and stared at John for some seconds. "Oh," he said, surprised, his eyes wide. "I see," he caught his breath. "I'm... sorry?" He tried.

John chuckled. The bloody git was sorry. That was going to be a difficult day. Damn it.


	3. Chapter 3

_**(Sherlock)**_

Sherlock wasn't sure he could understand John's reaction. Yes, he had a history of psychosomatic pain. He had came back from the war with a limp. Limp that Sherlock liked to think he had cured. Now he gave his friend a psychosomatic panic attack. Odd. Why would John react like that if he didn't want Sherlock to be in his house? And why would John shut Sherlock down completely if he wanted him around? This wasn't logic, this was a mess.

Sherlock stood near his cases and waited for John to say something, because he didn't know what to say. He wanted his violin, his microscope and to go away the fastest he could. That situation was hardly ideal. He wished he could just leave and not worry about John. He felt uncomfortable and sad.

"I talked to Mycroft yesterday," John said.

"Ah," Sherlock said. But that didn't make sense. Mycroft was always manipulative, but it was unlikely John to be so scared that he would have such reaction in Sherlock's presence. "He threatened you." It wasn't a question. "He's much more protective now, I guess. But you don't have to worry," Sherlock frowned. John was laughing. Why was he laughing if he was feeling scared? Maybe John was just drunk.

"I'm not worried, no. I'm scared, but not because of what you think," John said. "He is right, you know. That's scary, having to admit that brother of yours is right," John smirked.

Sherlock just stared. It was so good to see John smirk, he didn't know he had missed it so much. He would miss that. He shook his head. "I see you didn't burn my violin, after all. I'd like it back, please. And my microscope," he said. John didn't seem surprised Sherlock knew about it. "I didn't break into your room," he explained. "Mrs. Hudson told me."

John handed him the case.

Sherlock opened it and felt a quick rush of blood. _Sentiment._

Yes, he had missed the violin. He was that stupid. He ran his hand through the wood, and smiled when he saw the cloth neatly folded inside the case. Everything was perfect. John hadn't just kept it, he had cleaned it. The case seemed to be opened regularly. John didn't play the violin. This was sentiment.

He stroke the strings and frowned. Well, it would be too much to expect John to tune it too. Sherlock would have time to do that in his new flat. He hoped he could play. He wasn't sure he would take it well if he couldn't. Even if John wouldn't be there to listen.

"I miss the sessions in the middle of the night," John snapped.

Sherlock looked out the window. He didn't understand why John was telling him this. It was awkward and painful. He sighed. "I miss them too," he said. And he did. He missed the violin and he missed John. The two were very connected in his mind, but he would never say that.

"Can you sit here?" John asked pointing to the sofa, near him, but not too close. Sherlock nodded and sat down. "Just... don't leave," John said and Sherlock noticed the irregular breathing and his shaken left hand.

Maybe John was feeling guilty, because Mycroft was a rather good manipulator. Really, Mycroft, making John feel guilty was hardly helpful, Sherlock thought. He sighed, he wasn't able to deal with that, what a maddening thing. "I don't want to stay in your way in your house, John. This isn't practical. I'm uncomfortable and you are not happy, so...," Sherlock trailed off. That was more difficult than he thought, to admit that it wasn't his home, that John wasn't happy and that to leave was the only reasonable thing. "I know I've told you that I was used to spend days in silence, but that was before you. Now is just...," Sherlock trailed off again. That was awful, he was feeling the turmoil behind his eyes. He shook his head. "It's awkward. It's not helpful, it's unsatisfactory,..." he trailed off again and gave up, because Sherlock Holmes wasn't used to lose his words.

"It's sad," John said. John was always coming up with the most boring words. But sometimes they were the best for the moment. Sherlock nodded. "I'm sorry," John said.

Sherlock frowned. "There's no need for that," smiling awkwardly. He was not good at this. "I guess I should thank you for letting me stay, anyway. It was... good," Sherlock said. Faking social conventions with John was the dullest thing he had ever done. How things had became strange between them was hateful. And what the hell was that? No, Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to cry now. He wasn't a teenager anymore. He looked at the mantel and saw the skull. He never thought about taking it from John. He hadn't thought about it until now, actually. John was a better friend. Maybe Sherlock should take the skull now that he wouldn't have John.

"Can you stop that? All that?" John said, snapping Sherlock from his own mind. Sherlock raised an eye brown, puzzled. "First, stop losing yourself inside your head. Yes, I know when you are doing that thing of yours. And second, stop faking smiles at me. Stop telling me what you think you should say in this situation. You are not qualified for this. Most of all because it's one thing, but it looks like another," John said, exasperated.

"Right. Explain," Sherlock said, frowning, but much more comfortable. John almost looked like he could tolerate Sherlock for some minutes.

"We look like the married ones breaking up, you git, that's what we look like," John said.

Silence.

And then they were both giggling like two idiots, shaking their shoulders and all.

"Well, it's hardly my fault if you kept my things to sell them on the internet, or to make a fire, or to ask for ransom," Sherlock said, still giggling, feeling a thousand pounds lighter. That was nice. That was the nicest thing since he had came back. He even felt tears of laughter. John seemed right. That was good.

"Well, you were the one who left me and chose Molly to help you, instead," John said, even before he realize what he had thought.

Sherlock went very still.

Oh.

He couldn't help but tense. And that wasn't funny. It hadn't been like that at all.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I am hurt. And it's not easy to admit that. But I'm sorry, I don't have any right to say that."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, just to get rid of what he was feeling. Because feelings weren't his area, and he didn't like them. "I should go, then. I'll have someone to pick up my microscope later," he said, standing up and walking toward his cases. He was truly disturbed. If he would admit, he was feeling a bit hurt by that, and he didn't even understand why.

And there was John looking pale again and shaking, Sherlock stopped and stared. Really, why couldn't people just make sense? Sherlock sighed.

"Look, John," Sherlock started. Sherlock, of all people, was trying to make a conversation about feelings. That couldn't end up well. He would try, though. He sat on the coffee table, right in front of John. He dismissed his heart hammering and his sweating hands. That wasn't the time for his body to fail on him. "I don't understand this psychosomatic reaction. It's clear that you can't stand being near me," he continued, and that hurt, but he kept going. "I don't know what to do here. This is not my area. I'm used to have you to help me with this, but I don't have anymore. You don't talk to me, and you can't stand me, so even an idiot like you can deduce the same thing as me," Sherlock said. He frowned. "When I say idiot..."

"I know what you mean,"John snorted. "I'm having this reaction exactly because of that. I am an idiot, Sherlock," John said, and he looked taken aback. Sherlock frowned. John continued: "You see, I am a mess. I have been avoiding saying your name for the past three years, and now I said it to you and not even this is easy, okay?" Sherlock nodded.

"Can I talk about what happened? You don't like when I say anything, John. Sometimes it seems like it doesn't matter what I say, it's the sound of my voice that you can't stand," Sherlock said.

"It's exactly that," John smiled sadly. Sherlock frowned and shut his mouth. "No, it's not what you think. Anyway, you don't need to tell me anything if you don't want to. I understand."

"You do?" Sherlock asked, surprised. Yes, maybe John understood. It didn't mean he had to forgive anything. Maybe he couldn't. At least he was talking now, or trying. Maybe they could see each other casually. No, that wasn't a good idea. That would be... Sad, like John had said. How could he be friends with someone who couldn't stand his voice? What was wrong with it, anyway?

"Stop that," John snapped, raising an eye brown. "Jesus, you are thinking even harder now."

"Sorry, this is confusing," Sherlock signed. He felt defeated, and he probably looked like it.

"I'll tell you what I can, okay? Just give me a moment," John rubbed his face.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(John)**_

He had to look into Sherlock's eyes and that was one of the most difficult things. He haven't done it for years. He had to deal with his need to hug the man, to kiss him, to tell him he was sorry, but that he was also hurt. No, that wasn't good. He couldn't do that.

Sherlock was frowning, but didn't say anything. It was so good to have him close. It was so painful to hear him say that John couldn't stand him. Maybe it was true, but it was not what it seemed. And John knew that Sherlock was shitty with things that weren't what they seemed.

John straightened his shoulders and soldiered up. He wasn't a maiden in distress. He was Dr. John Watson and Sherlock need him to explain some things, damn it.

"Look, I really didn't take your death lightly," he smiled sadly. Sherlock nodded. "I am much more bitter than I've ever thought I could be, but I am happy that you are alive. You have to know that, okay? What I just said about Molly was bitter, I guess I'm just jealous," John said. Yep, he said it. No need to pretend there. Nothing wrong, he was jealous of his friend, of being left behind, obviously.

"I couldn't risk you," Sherlock answered. "You have to understand that. You were their principal target, John, I couldn't...," he trailed off.

John could do this, he could. Sherlock was so close, their legs were brushing, he could just hold that gorgeous face and snog that prat senseless. He would understand quickly enough why John was that much of a mess.

But he wouldn't. He tried to ignore his heart speeding up and the fact that his pupils must be taking his whole iris. Well, Sherlock's weren't small either. Curious that.

"I understood this yesterday, talking to your brother. Mycroft is right in being protective. It was good to see that, I guess," John said and he looked at Sherlock's left hand. He brushed it with his fingers. He was worried Sherlock wouldn't like it, but the detective just gave his hand to John, trusting and willing. John felt his heart melting. It was good. It was very good to feel that after so much time. "Are you doing your exercises?"

"Are you asking as my doctor?" Sherlock smirked.

"And as your friend. And as your partner, and tea maker, and milk buyer, and cook, and social conventions translator and, you know, flatmate, I hope," John said, clumsy and without thinking too much. This was better. Sherlock's pulse was elevated. That was a first, John thought, slightly aware that he was still holding his friend's hand for no particular reason. Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

They held each other's gaze for some time. And then John smiled realizing that Sherlock was gone, lost inside his own mind again.

John could almost see Sherlock's mind palace in a three dimension model. He could almost hear the gears of Sherlock's brain working furiously.

He had missed it. He had to admit that he had truly missed it. He had missed everything. He would even tell Sherlock that he had missed the experiments. Okay, maybe that wouldn't be wise.

John smiled to himself fondly. Maybe that was the largest smile he had felt in his own lips since Richard Brook and all that nightmare. For a moment, John felt light, not like the past three years hadn't happened, but as if he could get past them. That was definitely a first. And that was the best first of them all. He wanted to put his forehead in Sherlock's and say he was sorry and everything was going to be fine, that Baker Street was their home and he could have his microscope and take as much of the kitchen table as he liked.

He let go of Sherlock's hand, knowing that the mad genius would be off for some time and headed to the kitchen. He would gladly get two mugs from the cupboard.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(Sherlock)**_

Those words were flowing through Sherlock's mind. He had to understand what was happening to him. His pulse was elevated, his mouth was dry, he could feel his chest hurt with the sudden need to hold John close to him.

Those words he had just listened were playing repeatedly in his head. John was telling him something. He was telling him more than what he said. What was it?

He wanted Sherlock to stay, that was most obvious. He admitted he was bitter and hurt. He said he was sorry. Sherlock didn't mind. He would stay, obviously. John had just said he was willing to try to be his John again.

___His John._

Odd that.

He was willing to make tea again, to buy the milk and to cook, as he had always done.

He was willing to be his doctor again, and that meant he would take care of Sherlock again.

He frowned.

___You have to know that he cares. And he is still taking care of you, even if you don't see it._

___Mycroft is right in being protective. It was good to see that, I guess._

___Are you doing your exercises?_

No. Not again. But as always. John was always taking care of him.

And that wasn't only because he was a doctor.

He was willing to be his friend again. He was asking as a friend.

___He cares, Sherlock._

Yes, John cares. He had always cared about people. John was good.

He was just hurt. He wasn't functioning properly.

___You will leave? That ship sailed._

___You were the one who left me and chose Molly to help you, instead._

___Some part of him died with you that day._

___He couldn't let you go._

John cares a lot. He had always cared.

John was so human.

But John had lost friends before, and he hadn't seemed lost like that.

___He couldn't let you go._

He kept his violin, his microscope, he kept his skull.

He kept the most important things.

He kept him.

___I have been avoiding saying your name for the past three years..._

John didn't move on.

___This is a bloody psychosomatic reaction I have every time you say you are leaving..._

John had asked him to stay, even when he wasn't sure, Sherlock remembered.

He was Sherlock Holmes, he remembered everything.

___Do you want to come back?_

___Just stay here, will you? Just stay._

___Just... don't leave._

___He couldn't let you go. Can you understand that?_

He had to understand why.

___He lost the love of his life only to discover it was all a lie. Come on, Sherlock, can't you see that?_

John's pupils were enormous.

His pulse was fast and Sherlock knew that because his hand was... there.

He took Sherlock's hand.

___Can't you see that?_

No, that can't be.

That... can't be.

___We look like the married ones breaking up, you git, that's what we look like._

Sherlock frowned.

___And as your partner, and tea maker, and milk buyer, and cook, and social conventions translator and, you know, flatmate, I hope._

He smiled.

Yes, they look liked married ones, actually.

Sherlock didn't mind.

No... That couldn't...

John couldn't be...

That train of thought must be wrong.

___You were the one who left me and chose Molly to help you, instead._

___What I just said about Molly was bitter, I guess I'm just jealous._

___We look like the married ones breaking up, you git, that's what we look like._

___This is a bloody psychosomatic reaction I have every time you say you are leaving._

___Just stay here, will you? Just stay._

___Just... don't leave._

Sherlock snapped, just to find John sitting on the sofa in front of him. The doctor pointed at the mug beside Sherlock, who was still sitting on the coffee table. The detective sipped his tea.

Of course John still remembered how he liked his tea.

His John.

That John who didn't move on.

That John who had a psychosomatic reaction every time he was leaving.

That John who made Mrs. Hudson bake scones for him, who missed his violin, who couldn't let him go.

"Oi! Did you listen?" John asked, suddenly. "Of course not, you haven't listened a damn word I said," John said, smiling. "I said I kept one of your books."

Oh. That was interesting.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked.

John was flushed. "That little one about bees," he answered.

Oh, that was most definitely interesting.

Sherlock smirked.

His John, indeed.

That hypothesis deserved an experiment.

**OoOOooOOoo**

_**(John)**_

John had to admit he was happy. Happy just to sit in the living room with Sherlock and watch while he waited for his tea, didn't listen to anything John said, and sat on the bloody coffee table, lost in his own mind, with his eyes unfocused. Those tiny things that would bother other people, but never really bothered John.

John was the one who knew who Sherlock really was. Sherlock Holmes wasn't only the petulant genius, the actor, the great detective. Sherlock was also those violin pieces at 3 in the morning, he was his mad experiments and the body parts in the fridge, he was his obsession with bees, and his taste for sweets. John had missed each one of those little things. He couldn't believe he would have everything again. He could feel his heart hammering. It was so good to have him home. Yes, home. Now he was really home. Now they were really home.

Oh, yes, John was truly fucked. The crush he had on Sherlock had gone completely out of hand. That wasn't a crush anymore. It was love, and he would stick with the bastard no matter what. His body had his own reaction when Sherlock mentioned anything about leaving, for God's sake. No, that couldn't be healthy. Well, John couldn't care less, even if he tried really hard, which he wouldn't.

"How is your hand? Don't think I forgot that you didn't answer about your exercises," John said, fighting the urge to hold Sherlock's hand again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smiled. "I see you are in your doctor mode now. I think it's fine. It hurts when it's cold. I don't now about the violin yet," he said, cocking an eye brow.

"Yes, I know, I kept your violin, sorry. Consider a punishment for the body parts in the fridge. I'm sure there will be plenty of them by the end of the week," John answered, looking at Sherlock's shoulders. He still couldn't bring himself to believe Sherlock had been shot. He had to fight the urge to slam the walls or hunt down the bastard who had done that.

"He is locked up, don't worry," Sherlock said. Of course he was back deducing everything John thought. "It's the right one, it was a small caliber, not a Taliban bullet, I'm fine," he finished. And now John had to fight the urge not to ask to see the scar, just to be sure that everything was fine, that the bullet wasn't there anymore, that Sherlock was really alive.

"John!" Sherlock shook the doctor's shoulders. "I'm fine!"

"Sorry," John said, trying to think about anything other than Sherlock's injuries. "I just wished I could shoot him between the eyes," he said, without flinching.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, I know, I can sympathize to that."

"Your brother mentioned it," John said, trying not to look as pleased as he felt. He wasn't sure he was succeeding. "Thank you, I guess." Yes, they were a fucked up pair, they shoot people who threatened their lives. But, hey, who could blame them?

"Anytime," Sherlock said. "Actually, I think you could assist me in an experiment I want to run. You owe me," he smirked.

"Here we go," John sighed, but smiled. "I didn't keep any petri dish, I only kept the microscope. We can bring it downstairs," John said, standing up, only to be pulled back to the sofa by Sherlock.

"No, we won't be needing any of those," the detective explained.

John frowned. That couldn't be good. "Have you already drugged my tea?" He asked, only to giggle like a bloody lunatic, thinking that he didn't even care.

"John, you hurt me," Sherlock smirked. "No, I didn't. I won't need any substance either," he said.

John was puzzled. "Okay, what will you need?"

"You," Sherlock answered, holding John's gaze.

John felt his heart skip a bit. He could swear his chest would explode at anytime now. His pupils must be alarming. His breathing was heavy.

"Good," Sherlock said, reducing the already alarmingly small distance between them.

"What?" John swallowed hard.

Sherlock was already too close for John to miss his chance. He couldn't.

He had spent three years imagining that exactly moment, sometimes in that exactly same spot.

No, Sherlock was too gorgeous, his lips seemed too soft, his eyes were too piercing for John to resist it.

He couldn't.

He closed the distance, and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his jacket, crushing the detective's lips with his own. The detective brought his right hand to the back of John's neck and the doctor felt his own body shivering. It was even better than he had imagined. And he had imagined a lot.

John parted his lips and felt Sherlock's tongue brushing them. He accepted the tongue, only to attack it with his own, hungrily and desperately. He brushed Sherlock's jaw with his left thumb and held the detective closer, while their lips and tongues danced together feeling each other. He sucked Sherlock's bottom lip feeling its softness. Sherlock tasted like tea, and it was so familiar that John ached wanting to taste it everyday.

They broke the kiss, but stayed with their foreheads together, breathing hard. John couldn't take his eyes from Sherlock's lips and the detective seemed to be cataloging every single inch of John's face.

They wouldn't remember who started the second kiss, it was irresistible to either one of them. They kissed more deeply and gently. Their slow rhythm allowed them to feel their hearts hammering and the heat they were creating together. Sherlock moaned into the kiss and John could feel it in his own throat, sending a clear message to his groin. John felt goosebumps, he couldn't remember being so overwhelmed by a kiss for quite sometime. But then, again, he had never felt like that for anyone, because no one was like Sherlock Holmes.

John was kissing Sherlock Holmes. And for an experiment. That couldn't be good.

John broke the kiss gently, brushing Sherlock's lips slightly with his thumb. He remembered that yes, experiments were good and all, but he was now even more fucked than he was before. He felt that ache again, felt sad, but shook it off, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, as if he could pretend that he wasn't just dying to kiss that gorgeous lips again and again.

Sherlock seemed lost in thought. Yep, that was great. John sighed and tried to stand up to go do anything that didn't include not kissing Sherlock. But the detective grabbed his arm and shoved him on the sofa again. Really, what was it with Sherlock and that bloody sofa? John looked at him, puzzled, trying to ignore the image of the swollen lips and the fact that Sherlock was brushing them with his own fingers.

"You love me," Sherlock said. Of course it wasn't a question, and John wasn't sure if Sherlock was truly conscious of what he had just said. He seemed a little lost inside his own mind. Not completely, but as if he was trying hard not to lose himself in thoughts. Slowly his eyes focused again. "You love me," he repeated, now fully aware of it, affirmative.

"Well, yes," John felt sad. What kind of experiment was that? Was it really necessary? Maybe he should be angry, but he had spent so much time being angry that now he was just sad. He couldn't even bring himself to tell Sherlock that that was a bit not good. Not the kiss, obviously, but to let his best friend make a fool of himself wasn't good.

He could manage, he would do it, it didn't matter. How could he deny that, anyway? Impossible, he could bloody well just use a neon sign on his forehead.

"John!" Sherlock shouted. "Stop trying to deduce things, you are terrible at it!"

"I am not deducing, I am just thinking," John said.

"Well, you are terrible at this either," Sherlock smiled. "You didn't observe anything. And you didn't listen to me."

"What is it, then?" John asked, trying not to look as sad as he felt.

"I love you too, you idiot," Sherlock smirked.

"You... what?" John was mad. Yes. He had gone completely mad. What was that he was listening?

"Don't be obtuse, please, it's rather obvious. I stayed alive so I could come back home, I couldn't not kill the man that was going to shoot you, I am right here. Even the Scotland Yard could solve that," Sherlock snapped in that petulant tone of his, only to be disappointed by the confused expression on John's face. "Really, John, the facts: there's you and only you, you are the only person I can't stand on a regular basis, I always hated all your girlfriends and I alienated every single one of them, I jumped from a roof because I couldn't lose you, I came back and I stayed here even if you didn't seem to want me to. And... Well, I actually tried to talk to you. I wouldn't do such thing to any other person. Don't you see? Not even Anderson could be that stupid," Sherlock said, exasperated.

"That's... good," John said, smiling. He knew Sherlock was only cataloging the facts, exposing his train of thoughts to help John to see a deduction as he did at a crime scene, but it was the sweetest thing John had ever listened. And the fucking git didn't even realize it. It was too adorable to stand it.

"Do you see it now?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, that was brilliant," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "Thank you. The experiment was enlightening. I understood a few things."

"Such as?" Ah, now John was truly interested. He was already thinking Sherlock should come up with an experiment that didn't include clothes at all.

"You love me, I love you, you taste as good as you smell, you feel as good as you taste, and we are a perfect match. Excellent. But most of all I understood why we were not like the married ones breaking up," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, as if he hadn't just caused a massive erection on the other man.

"Okay, then," John said, his mouth dry and his pants suddenly tight. He wasn't even aware of what he was asking anymore. He couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's mouth. Those lips were the whole world. He blinked. "And why is that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smirked. He closed the distance between them and brushed his nose on the side of John's neck and jaw, he let his lips brush John's ear and whispered: "Don't be an idiot, John. It's because we are only beginning."

**oooooooooo**

**If you have reached the end, thank you very much for reading, dear! (:**

**I'd love to know your opinion! It'd be great if you could give me a feedback.**

**That was my first one! I hope you enjoyed it!**


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